


Sticks and Stones

by enthugger



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Kissing, Angst, Bad coping mechanisms, Cuddling, M/M, heavyhanded foreshadowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 04:29:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13356519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthugger/pseuds/enthugger
Summary: Enjolras has a soft spot for him, like a bruise he can’t stop pressing when he already knows how much it hurts.





	Sticks and Stones

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by [this](http://batcii.tumblr.com/post/166706066738/les-amis-inktober-day-twelve-shattered-first) lovely comic, go check it out!

The glass is shattered inwards, like something heavy was thrown from the outside. It crunches like pebbles under his shoes as Enjolras approaches the window. He surveys the scene. There is a brick a few feet away from the, definitely the culprit, he decides, a folded piece of paper tied around it with string. 

It’s a problem. Clearly someone knows who they are and where they are, someone who feels strongly enough to send the message of a broken window in a rented space. But at least it’s not the police, yet. And the old-school threat makes him more excited than it should. It makes things seem so much more real. 

He bends down to pick up the brick, shaking off stray shards of glass as he unties the note, skims it. It’s poetic in a way, the word choice people will resort to in describing his own death, the deaths of all those who associate with him. He quickly folds it again, starts to throw it down, picks it back up, before finally clenching it in his fist as he stands up, crinkling the stiff edges. He walks to the broken window, but the street below is silent, still blanketed in soft morning light. He’s up early anyway, and it’s not like the assailant would just sit around waiting to get caught. 

He should have expected things like this, but the first time is unnerving in a way that surprises him. He walks a slow circle around the room, scanning the bar, the tables, every corner. They are all empty, all silent, save for the quiet crunch of glass beneath his feet when he crosses in front of the window. Finally, he sinks down on the edge of a nearby table, stares down at the crinkled paper in his hands, realizes that they’re shaking. 

He shoves his fists into his pockets. 

“Fuck.” 

“Oh, sorry.” 

Enjolras starts, looking up as the door creaks shut and someone pokes their head into the room. 

He almost curses again. Grantaire.

“I forgot to bring those papers the other day, so I thought I’d take time out of my busy schedule to – oh, hey. What happened?” His steady flow of chatter, talking too much about all the wrong things, as usual, comes to a stop as he blinks at the scene in front of them. 

Enjolras realizes he’s still standing on a pile of broken glass and walks towards him, kicking a particularly large piece out of his way. “Nothing important,” he says finally, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with Grantaire as they survey the scene. “Someone’s not very happy with us, but that just means we’re doing something right. They must have thrown something overnight.” He stops, and without really knows why, unclenches his fist that holds the note. “They left this.”

He opens the letter, tries to flatten it out and finally hands it over. 

Grantaire’s eyes widen as he reads and Enjolras can imagine the words that are making his fingers clench more tightly around the already crinkled paper. _Hopeless_. _Dead_. _Forgotten_. He read them too. 

“Oh, wow.” Grantaire looks stunned, at a loss for words for the first time Enjolras has seen. There’s no bullshit existential philosophy or badly timed humor, the mood lifter he was hoping for. They stand in silence for a moment. 

“So, uh, what are we going to do?” He finally stops reading and slowly hands the letter back to Enjolras who frowns. 

“What do you mean ‘what are we going to do’? Have you actually heard nothing that’s been going on this whole time?” He starts to fold the paper back up along it’s ridges, turning it back into that tiny square as if that could somehow make it feel smaller, less important. 

“No of course I have, why else do you think I’m up at,” Grantaire fishes his phone out of his pocket, checking the time, “9am on a day I don’t have class delivering you these stupid pamphlets?”  


Enjolras crosses his arms, unimpressed. 

Grantaire sighs, rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s not that. It’s just that this is dangerous. It’s real. Maybe too real. The farther we go the angrier people are going to get.” 

“You think change is easy? The powers that be don’t just roll over and let us through. It takes work, we have to actually fight for this!” He’s probably overacting, but right now he doesn’t care. Getting angry is helping, it’s pushing down the fear bubbling in his chest, pulling up his conviction, making every word that comes out of Grantaire’s mouth feel like a hand tightening around his throat. He shouldn’t have to be proving this to one of them.

“It just seems like you’re not seeing the big picture here. I’m worried about –“ 

He doesn’t realize he’s stepped in closer until Grantaire reaches out and pushes him away, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make him stumble. And something in him snaps. He grabs the front of Grantaire’s shirt, hauls him backwards against the wall, pushes them both up against it as Grantaire’s head knocks back in a way that has to be painful, but right now he doesn’t care. 

“You’re worried about yourself,” he hisses into the space between them, “that’s the problem.” 

They’re standing too close, both out of breath, not sure if they’re at the end of a fight or on the verge of one. 

And God, Enjolras has a soft spot for him. Like a bruise he can’t stop pressing when he already knows how much it hurts. He knows he should let it go, let _him_ go, he should clean up the glass and get to work. But he can feel Grantaire’s breath warm against his cheek. He smells like cigarettes and toothpaste, honestly, it’s a gross combination. He can also feel his heart pounding where his fingers are clenched in the front of his shirt, wonders if it’s from being slammed against the wall or from the proximity. He pushes the thought away.

Grantaire tilts his head forward slightly, so close they’re almost touching and hesitantly looks up to meet his eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. Maybe we should just – “ 

Enjolras kisses him. It’s hard, awkward, angry. He’s still so angry. Angry that someone would try so aggressively to stop them when they’ve hardly even started. Angry that Grantaire would agree with whoever wrote the note, would even think that something as insignificant as a death threat would make him turn his back on everything they’d worked so hard for. 

Grantaire has melted against him, his hands are in Enjolras’ hair, buried in blond curls, tugging him closer, his teeth scrape gently against Enjolras’ bottom lip. Enjolras shifts, turns his head to kiss the exposed skin under Grantaire’s ear, feels breaths shudder beneath his clenched fingers. 

It’s not helping. He still feels his temples pounding, still feels the need to look over his shoulder every other second, yell, anything other than stand around doing, well – He stiffens quickly, pulls away.  
“I think you should go.” He is pointedly not looking, but he still catches the look of hurt that crosses Grantiare’s face before he drops his eyes to the ground, scuffing the floorboards with the toe of his shoe. 

“Yeah, fine. It’s not like I’m any help here, is it?” 

Enjolras crosses his arms, bites the inside of his cheek to keep from frowning. “It’s early, I just wanted to get some work done before tonight.” He tries to keep his tone level, professional, hoping to at least avoid another argument. 

Grantaire has crossed the room, he picks up his bag and slams a stack of papers down on a nearby table, starts to walk towards the door without another word. 

“Uh, be careful there’s glass.” Enjolras knows his words sound forced. Grantaire stops with an unlit cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other, his shoulders stiffen. 

“Thanks, your concern is touching,” he turns, does a little two fingered salute that is dripping with just as much sarcasm as his words, “Chief.” 

The door slams this time and Enjolras realizes that the note is still clenched in his hand. 

“Fuck.”  
-  
Grantaire can’t sleep. Well, that’s not quite accurate because he hasn’t even tried, but he’s pretty sure that if he did try he wouldn’t be able to. His couch is uncomfortably lumpy, especially the way he’s laying with his head half up on the armrest that makes his neck hurt. But it’s the best angle for him to both see whatever it is he’s watching on tv, and to reach the bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him.  


He leans down slightly, refilling his glass – yes, a glass, he can at least pretend to be classy – he thinks about getting up for a cigarette, decides against it. His phone buzzes against his leg, startling him out of his tipsy haze, and he fishes it out of his pocket. It’s 2am he notes, that must be why everything on tv is so crap. 

It vibrates again and he blinks at it, swallows his whiskey slightly to fast and resists the urge to hurl it across the room when he sees the text.

_Hi. Are you awake? – Enjolras_

He types back, _no_ and puts the phone down on his chest, draping his free arm over his face. He’s actually almost asleep when he gets a response twenty minutes later. 

_Come over_ – no punctuation. No clarification as to whether it’s a command, a request, a wish. Grantaire groans, downs what’s left in his glass and pushes himself upright. There’s no use pretending that he’s not going to go. And strangely, it’s not because the memory of Enjolras’ lips just won’t stay in the corner of his brain that he tries to push them into or the softness of his hair under Grantaire’s fingers.

None of those things. 

It’s more that someone needs him, was willing to be vulnerable in a way that he’s not sure they’ve been with almost anyone else. And hell, anything is better than sitting around drinking to bad game shows on Wednesday night. 

He pulls on his shoes, lights a cigarette, and doesn’t answer the text until he’s outside Enjolras’ building, the late-night wind whipping his hair across his face. He shivers, sticks his phone back in his pocket and waits. 

Enjolras cracks the door finally and beckons him up the stairs into his flat. He leads him through a dark hallway and finally shows him, with a slightly dramatic wave, into a bedroom at the end of the hall. Grantaire glances over the bed: untouched, the desk: papers, a few open books, one of which has a library due date for a week ago. He can’t help but notice on the top of a neatly stacked pile of papers, a small rumpled handwritten note, almost definitely the one from this morning. 

In the dim light of the desk lamp, he finally turns to study Enjolras, raising an eyebrow slightly, questioning. He’s wearing an old sweatshirt, his hair is tied back at the base of his neck in a small ponytail, there are dark circles like bruises under his eyes. 

Enjolras turns away from him, sighs. “I wanted to tell you that you were right.” 

He blinks in surprise, “I was?” 

“This morning. Or,” he glances down at his watch, “yesterday morning,” he takes a step closer, reaching out to touch Grantaire’s arm, pauses. “Wait, are you drunk?” 

Grantaire pats his arm absentmindedly, the hint of a smile on his face, “No. I had a drink, or two, like a normal person.” They look at each other for a moment, “Go on, tell me more about how right I am.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but continues, extracts his arm and starts pacing as he talks. “What you said earlier, I understand. I do see the big picture. Of course it’s dangerous, we might die, that’s all part of what we’re doing here. I’ve accepted that, we’ve all accepted that.” He reaches a hand out as he’s talking, getting more impassioned. 

Graintaire feels his stomach do a flip. 

There’s things he should say right now, things like “domestic terrorism” and “I’m always up for the sweet embrace of death” and “be careful.” But instead he grabs Enjolras’ hand, draws him forward, and leans up hesitantly to kiss him again. He is keenly aware of many things while kissing Enjolras; like how his breath probably smells like alcohol, like how much he doesn’t work out, and how terrified he is that Enjolras will pull away again. 

And ok, maybe this is a little bit of why he got off the couch. 

Enjolras’ other hand comes up to cup his elbow, leads them over until his shins bump against the bed and they sit, faces still inches away. He leans in again, but Enjolras turns away, his cheeks flushed. His hair has come loose and falls over his shoulder in a little blonde wave as he moves his head. 

It’s beautiful. 

Grantaire sits back, hands on his knees, studies his nailbeds intently. 

“I have to be up in three hours,” Enjolras says finally. He sounds suddenly exhausted, tucks his hair behind one ear. “Would it be ok if we just…sleep?” 

“Sleep?” Grantaire feigns shock, “The revolution waits for no man! You think it will wait around for such basic human needs?” But he flops backwards, scoots up until he can lean back against a pillow and feels altogether too pleased with himself when Enjolras tries to cover up a smile as he rolls his eyes. 

Enjolras gets up, switches off the light and bustles around for a few minutes before slipping into bed beside him. They both stare up at the ceiling for a long moment, Grantaire is hyper aware of the sliver of space between their shoulders, makes sure not to touch as he turns onto his side. 

“It’s a serious thing you know.” Enjolras’ voice is a quiet afterthought, almost a whisper, “you shouldn’t joke.” 

“Yeah.” His voice is too loud and the words are wrong, but he keeps going, “I’m sorry for, you know, everything. Who I am as a person…” He stops abruptly when Enjolras’ hand finds his under the covers and squeezes gently. 

“Thank you.” 

He closes his eyes, but stays awake for a long time, listening as Enjolras’ breathing next to him gets slow and even, as the grip on his hand relaxes into sleep. He smiles.


End file.
